Summary: When the grocery closes, Ned's troubles are just beginning.
Author's Note: This story is written for the
2021 On The Job
—Economic Recovery Challenge. There are some bad words and some good sex, but if graphic, super-detailed encounters are what you're seeking, please look elsewhere.
Many thanks to Sister Jezabel for the beta read and suggestions. Any mistakes that remain are entirely my own.
All characters are over the age of 18.
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It was late and I was trying to reach something in the very back of Freezer 11 when I felt the gun barrel, hard and cold, pressed firmly in the middle of my back against my spine. Seemingly colder than the temperature of the freezer cases I was working, it chilled me to the bone, sending a shiver through my body as a deep, gravelly voice said, "Don't move and you'll live through this."
I froze standing atop the little step stool as my mind raced.
Shit!
I thought.
I missed someone and they hid in the store waiting until everyone else was gone. If he shoots me, maybe someone will finally call the police in the morning when I don't unlock the store and they see my car still out front.
That wouldn't matter though, for I'd be long dead.
"Okay, step down but keep your hands up in the air. If you make a wrong move, I'll let you have it. Got it?"
The voice was indeed deep, but almost comically so, as if disguised by Mel Blanc doing a deliberately bad impression of Barry White. "Yeah, I'm good," I said as I stepped back off of the step stool, letting the freezer door slam shut. "What do you want?"
"Well, for one, I want you to keep it down. Any yelling, and I'll let you have it for that, too. As for the rest, what do you think I want?"
What a strange question! "Uh, uh...ahem...there's about $200 in the office, cash for the tills for change tomorrow, but the rest is already in the safe. I don't have the combination to that, but you can have the change money."
The robber laughed, as if a deep, forced rumble, before saying, "For $200? I don't think so. Tell you what, put your hands against that door, leaning into it, okay? That's a good man. Now, let's bring your right hand around and put it here, in the small of your back."
The barrel pressed harder against me for a moment. A shot there would leave me dead or, at minimum, paralyzed, so I did as he said, bringing my hand around before I felt cold metal against my wrist and a firm snapping sound. Handcuffs?
"Now, the other hand, slow and gentle or...or you'll be sorry."
This, I figured, would be my only chance to fight back, but maybe my tensing gave me away, for the robber pushed the gun even more firmly against my back and said, "Uh uh uh-hh."
I felt it this time, the robber's gloved hand as the handcuff snapped on my left wrist and he turned me around. Needless to say, I was a little surprised. Even this time of night, it was over 85 degrees outside and about 78 in the store, but my assailant was wearing a ski mask, blue jeans and a bulky coat, gloves, and boots. About the only thing that was even halfway right for the time of year was the dark sunglasses, but considering that the sun had set well over two hours earlier, even those weren't appropriate. The temple tips were hooked into the knit ski mask, making it an almost comical sight if not for the fact that he was now holding me against my will.
With the disguise, it was hard to tell, but I estimated him to be about 5-foot-5 to maybe 5-foot-7, almost my height, and possibly on the thinner side despite his deep voice. He was just pulling his hand from his pocket as I turned so I didn't see the gun, but the stretched fabric told me that something heavy was in there.
A gun, I knew. It had to be a revolver, one of those Saturday night specials they always talk about on the news. I'd shot enough with my grandfather on his farm that I knew what a gun could do, even one of those snub-nosed revolvers. A gun that would probably kill me if I didn't do just what this asshole robber said.
***
A little earlier that evening...
It was a hot night in July and I was in charge of closing Mr. Kemian's grocery store. I'd graduated from the nearby college a couple of months earlier, but had been working at Kemian's Food Market at least part-time for six years so he'd trusted me with managing the place while he and the beautiful Mrs. K took a short but much needed vacation and got a little rest at the beach. Imagining Mrs. K in a bikini after having imagined her while I showered with great success any number of times over the years, I suspected that rest would end up being the last thing on Mr. K's mind.
Yes, Mr. Kemian told me this stint would be "great experience" for me and would "help my resume," since I'd been looking for a full-time job with benefits for months as the U.S. economy slowly fought to emerge from the double-dip recession of the early 80s. Unemployment was still high in many states, including ours, but at this point in the week after four-straight fourteen-plus-hour days, I wasn't sure if I wanted any more experience or the help and if I didn't need rest more than he did.
Fortunately, while this was supposed to be the next-to-last night, I was hoping it would actually be the last one and I was looking forward to my "experience" being over. The Kemians would be returning early the following afternoon, a Friday, and I was almost certain he wouldn't be able to avoid coming in to check up on the store and the receipts. If he did, he'd probably let me go early, as much to avoid more overtime as to be helping me, and I'd either go home to collapse or finally get to go by to see Leslie, my girlfriend, who I'd barely seen all week.
Leslie had finally found a decent job after getting her associate's degree and enduring a long job search, so she'd dropped by the store for a few minutes after she got off work the first three days, but there'd been no privacy and none of our usual intimate fun. We'd been together for almost a year and had become quite adventurous in the bedroom and I was looking forward to our next session when I had time off. Unfortunately, she'd had plans for this evening and I missed seeing her very much. I loved her and planned to ask her to marry me soon, assuming I could find a good job to support us.
No, I decided, if Mr. Kemian were to send me home early tomorrow, the choice between sleep and Leslie would be an easy one. I could sleep when I was dead.
As the hands on the big clock up front edged nearer to closing time, I became a bit nervous. While Mr. Volcker and the folks at the Fed were slowly getting inflation under control and the economy back on track, crime in our city seemed to be getting rapidly worse by the day. In fact, there'd been several robberies and a murder in our part of town just since the Kemians had left for the beach. That concerned me, but, fortunately, Mr. K made it a practice of not accepting large bills and we made sure to keep the money in the till to a minimum during the day, making periodic deposits in the slot in the safe. I didn't know—or want to know—the safe's combination, but I was starting to get rather nervous about the amount of money I'd put into the slot over the past four days. I could only imagine the fun a guy with dynamite or a safecracker might have, the payoff he'd get, and the result on my fledgling career.
Because of that, I had Bryce and Callie, the evening employees, closely watching the front of the store while I worked the aisles, but by around 9, I moved up, adding my eyes to the mix. I discreetly observed the comings and goings in the store, keeping track of customers and making sure that those who entered left in a timely fashion. While I never want to be thankful for a lack of customers or sales, the dropoff after 9 was almost welcomed since when I locked up at 10 I wanted to make sure everyone was out promptly, that I could send the other two employees home before too long, and that I could complete the final cleanup and preparation for the next day in short order.
"A tidy, well-faced store helps drive sales," Mr. Kemian had said more times than I could count over the years. With most of the usual cleanup completed with few customers in the store, I'd spend an hour or so doing the facing effort after closing, pulling stock forward to be accessible and straightened to make it look like the shelves and doors were full even when they weren't. "Customers seeing lots of stock, or at least thinking they see lots of stock, tend to buy more," he'd say.
At precisely 10 PM, I locked the front door as the last customer left. Bryce and Callie did their part of the straightening effort, with Callie griping the entire time. "I'm a fucking cashier, not a stock clerk."
"You're Mr. K's employee and you're getting paid to do what he asks you to do. And he's asked you to do this before, though I'm also pretty sure fucking isn't part of that."
She gave me an evil look. "You'll get yours, Ned," she said before laughing and giving me a wink. While rather dour and foul-mouthed at times, she and Leslie had been school classmates and were still best friends; Callie had actually introduced us at the store a couple of years earlier and had even helped arrange our first date when Leslie and I eventually happened to be unattached at the same time. For those reasons, I suspected that Callie knew far more about what went on between Leslie and me than I'd have preferred. Bryce, on the other hand, didn't have a clue, going about his work much like an automaton as he usually did and barely hearing our discussion.
The clock read 10:32 when I unlocked the door to let them out; I was sure to check it so I could confirm their time cards. Bryce went out the door first and disappeared around the corner, with Callie exiting behind him. She stopped for a moment in the open doorway and turned to pat my cheek. "Have a fun evening, Ned. Don't work too hard."
My look turned to a frown, knowing, as she knew, that I wouldn't be getting any tonight. She laughed with her stupid cackle, making it all I could do to keep from calling her Bitchy-Poo or worse. Leslie had let it slip that Callie, with her bright red hair and laugh, had been nicknamed after the H.R. Puffenstuf character when they were little, but I'd modified the nickname in my mind, always—at least so far—holding my tongue to keep it from slipping out.
With the door relocked, it was back to the coolers for restocking and facing. The cooler was set about 40 degrees but I didn't bother to put on a jacket since I'd only be in there for a few minutes. I restocked milks, other dairy products, juices, eggs, and some other refrigerated items before doing a final check from the front, turning a few cartons and jugs the right way so the customers could read them.
"A tidy, well-faced store helps drive sales," I said, but using a half-decent imitation of Billie Hayes' Witchy-Poo voice. Well, maybe a good deal less than half-decent, but I was in a sour mood so I rounded up anyway.
